


i remember you in fits and storms

by Falmarien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10079870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falmarien/pseuds/Falmarien
Summary: In which Draco doesn’t read the papers and is dragged to Gringotts. [ON HIATUS]





	1. Chapter 1

**i.**

 

It wasn’t a particularly bad day.

Granted, it was still miserable: it was drizzling outside and he was in a mildly foul mood when he got to the office, but it wasn’t that different from any ordinary day. He ran out of coffee at home, but he had had the chance to grab a cup before heading in, his morning headache soothed. He’d call that a win on worse days.

In retrospect, he still believed that morning to be nothing but plain. He had heard of people getting a sort of warning, a twinge, or at least a _feeling_ when such things happened. Well. It seemed like he was mistaken, then.

It was half one when he heard a knock on the door.

“Mr Malfoy?”

The woman standing outside was in a plain dark blue robe, somewhat on the formal side, not a hair out of place. She carried herself with the air of someone who knew she could walk into any place and was simply asking out of courtesy, not of necessity.

“What can I help you, Ms…?”

“Deverill. Olivia Deverill. I am here on behalf of the Goblin Liaison Office. May I come in?”

One should never mess with goblins; he’d learnt that lesson early on. “Of course. Please, do have a sit.”

She sat down as he waved the door shut. Perplexed, his mind started racing; he couldn’t recall any misconduct that could possibly concern Gringotts. Not recently, at least. The goblins were understandably not too happy with his family after the war, and every trip to Gringotts since had been awkward, to say the least, but he had made a point to be cautious and cordial in every way, and if he was slightly more generous than before, no one saw the need to bring it up.

“I’ll be frank, Mr Malfoy. I see this may be difficult for you, and I fully understand that considering the circumstances, you would probably prefer to handle things… discreetly. I assure you, we will be most accommodating during the process of finalising certain legal issues, and no details will be revealed to a third party without your knowledge.” Her eyes were stern, but not malicious, and her tone was patient. The combination was almost always a bad sign.

He arched an eyebrow. “Dare I ask legal issues regarding what, exactly?”

“The will, Mr Malfoy.”

He could feel the blood drained from his face. The silence in the room was suddenly deafening. “What will? My mother — is she alright?”

“No, not your mother. The will of Mr Potter. You’re appointed as one of the executors, and I’m here to ask you to come with me for the reading of the will.”

“Wait, _Potter_ is dead?”

She paused, a hint of surprise on her face for the first time after walking into the room. “Yes, I’m afraid so. You are not aware of this?”

“No, of course not — how would I know? What happened?”

“The news was in the Daily Prophet this morning. I assumed. My apologies, Mr Malfoy.”

He didn’t read the Prophet this morning; he hadn’t for years, only some glimpses here and there — not after — he could feel the racing in his mind stopping, his _brain_ stopping. 

Potter was dead.

The mere idea was too foreign and absurd that he couldn’t wrap his mind around it, he wanted to laugh and yell and demand whomever behind this to stop this joke because it simply couldn’t be true, but he did neither, sitting there frozen, blinking stupidly at the woman in front of him for a good ten seconds.

Deverill remained silent for a while; Draco hated that look in her eyes. It was alarmingly akin to pity, and he had never liked nor needed that. He wouldn’t start now. Something in his chest — heaved, and halted, leaving him strangely emptied, even though there wasn’t anything there to feel bereft of.

She cleared her throat. “I do have a copy with me, the Prophet, if you would like to take a look?”

He took the offered copy without thinking.

The title was so terrible he managed a snort: _The Boy Who Lived No More — Breaking News! Auror Potter revealed to have been killed in the line of duty_. There was no photograph of the case, only one candid shot from some Ministry event in the past, as if anyone needed a photo to recognise Harry Potter. Which. Right. Picture. He’d forgotten that there could be pictures. But it wasn’t like he was new to the sight of Potter covered in blood. Or in bruises and gashes. Or under some tricky curse that was set to break all of his limbs, taking turns, one at a time. Even refused to let it heal, too, for that matter. Or all of the above. Draco blinked again, tearing his eyes away from the photo to the article itself — but the words swirled and churned, refusing to grant him access.

He put the papers down after two tries, the once-familiar pang in his chest sliding right back in place, extending, expanding, filling his chest to the brim. He breathed out. All he needed to know was that it _did_ happen; sure, the Prophet was full of rubbish, but with news of this scale, it couldn’t be wrong on the one fact that it did happen, could it? The _how_ hardly mattered.

He took a deep breath. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Like I was saying, Mr Malfoy, you’re listed as one of the executors of Mr Potter’s estate. I am liaising with the goblins on behalf of Registry and Customs; a colleague of mine is notifying the other executors at this moment. Considering the specific nature of this case, the Auror Office has also sent a representative. He’ll be waiting for us at Gringotts.”

“What do you mean, ‘specific nature’?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that at the moment. Everything will be clear at the reading, Mr Malfoy. Would you come with me?”

“Is there a... body?”

“Again, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that. I’m sorry.”

“What? What _can_ you tell me, then?”

Deverill paused, looking at him straight in the eye, “I understand that this came as a surprise and it’s rather a lot to process, but I’m just the liaison. We notify the executors to come in and read the will with everyone present; I have no knowledge of the content of the will, nor the reasons he had in mind when making any decisions, nor the details of Mr Potter’s work with the DMLE. So, if you would like to come with me?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. He opened his mouth, paused, swallowed. His voice sounded stiff and distant to his own ears. “When did he confirm the will?”

“Pardon?”

“Aurors have to confirm their wills every year, correct?”

“Yes, I believe so. I take it you aren’t aware of the existence of the will?”

“No. We — he didn’t tell me.” He thought of that day when he walked out and never looked back. It felt like another lifetime. What were you doing, Potter? Why didn’t you take me off the list?

Deverill’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes seemed somehow gentler when she spoke.

“I’m not here to pass judgement or assume anything; it isn’t my place. I have no wish to overstep. But we really do need the will to determine our next step. If you require some space and time, I will be waiting outside.” She stood up. “I just want to say that the news came as a most frightful shock, and it is a great loss to the entire wizarding world. My condolences, Mr Malfoy.”

She gave him a curt nod before leaving. He couldn’t even say anything.

_Potter was dead._

* * *

Draco spent the next two minutes trying to pretend nothing had happened. Then the two after that, what course of action should he take. But he couldn’t shake the stone settling in his gut, couldn’t _not_ think of that fucking headshot in the Prophet, in which Potter was glancing away from the camera, looking solemn and grim and so familiar, and, most of all, he couldn’t stop thinking about the last time they talked.

It was after one of the big cases, the one the papers had termed the Vetiver Incident (quite inadequately, as far as Draco was concerned; vetiver was completely innocent), involving dangerous potions illegally brewed and smuggled into the country. The case wasn’t particularly perilous, but it had dragged out for weeks, and Harry had been growing more and more stressed out, distant. Irritable. The arguments themselves weren’t anything new; they were already in place, more and more often this past year, recurring every time after any big case (accompanied by severe injuries, more often than not). But that had been the turning point.

Dinner turned into a screaming match with them accusing each other in turn of having a hero complex — Draco stood by his words to this day — and self-esteem issues, total lack of concern for one’s own safety, and other petty things like getting home drunk and forced attendance to boring parties. Much of it was old dirt; perhaps that should be telling. After all, they _were_ always quite talented at getting under each other’s skin. At the end Draco had left Harry’s place furious, slamming the door right in his face with no intention to ever go back again.

That was the night before the capture.

The next evening, an owl knocked on Draco’s window right after he got home. He recognised the standard-issue St Mungo’s letter from practice, cold and formal, revealing absolutely no information whatsoever. 

He Floo’d to the hospital right away, bumping one of his big toes on the fireplace wall in his haste. It was smarting dreadfully when he stumbled out of the fireplace; he limped slightly to the Inquiries, then to Harry’s ward on the fourth floor, cursing silently all the way.

Unsurprisingly, Weasley was there, looking utterly miserable with his share of bandages, an ugly bruise covering almost half of his face, ginger hair dimmed and dusty. He flinched at the look on Draco’s face, then hissed painfully when the action pulled his split lips.

“They’re still working on him. We don’t know what happened exactly — no one saw — but he was hit with an Entrail-Expelling Curse, most definitely, mixed with several other stuff,” Weasley said in a low voice, rubbing his eye, the unhurt one, looking exhausted. “They said they’re putting him in a magically-induced coma to slow down the progression of the curses. It will give them time to heal surface wounds and figure out what he was drenched in.”

“How the hell did no one see?”

“Harry and I were the first to the scene, the detection charm came back with only three people inside and we heard a noise, we were afraid they were clearing out, so we decided to go in, erm, but backup wasn’t there yet — ”

“And it was a trap, I presume?”

“Well, sort of, I guess — ” Draco snorted, but Weasley went on. “Then everything exploded — the potion guys can fill you in on the details, I’m not sure what exactly happened there, somehow they set their lab exploding, and attacked us when we were blind-sighted. We realised our intel on the persons in the lab was wrong, there were too many of them, but we were surrounded, right, couldn’t draw back, and Harry was already in the midst of everything when the others arrived, so he took the most of it, and…” He gestured rather helplessly. “The team back at the Ministry are still identifying what ingredients were involved. They’ll let us know.”

“So, he’s got spell damage, possible poisoning from an unidentified potion, amongst other physical injuries?”

“That’s about it. Erm, and a couple of broken ribs from the explosion, I think,” he added helpfully.

“How could the Aurors allow this to happen time after time? Shouldn’t you all be dead by now if this is how you handle missions?” Draco sneered, not really expecting an answer. 

Weasley opened his mouth, but he was stopped by a Healer coming over to check on his wounds. She cast a diagnostic spell with a disapproving look, got him a healing paste for the bleeding arm, but didn’t try to make him leave. They’d long given up on that.

As Draco really had been extremely tired and immensely worried, he didn’t push. He sat down with Weasley, a good fifteen inches between them, and stretched out his legs. He might as well make himself comfortable for the long wait ahead.

He was angry, of course, enraged at everything: the idiotic smuggler ring, the incompetent Aurors, the stupidity of Harry bloody Potter, and, above all else, just how familiar this scenario had become. He didn’t have it in him to yell at Weasley at the moment.

In fact, during all the long waits outside Harry’s room, Draco had reluctantly managed something more than a truce, an alliance of sorts, with Weasley. The same could be said for Granger, who had come by later, bringing food and tea with her, relieving Weasley for him to report back to the office. Those Aurors really were a fucking, lunatically demanding lot.

Harry had remained in coma for five days; those were the longest five days in his life, and he had survived with a Dark Lord living in his family home for a year. They were allowed to see Harry on the third day, still unconscious, but were rushed out again when some monitoring spell started beeping frantically; then the Healers finally cleared him on the sixth day, allowing the Aurors to speak with him before letting Draco and Granger in.

She’d hugged him while Draco stayed behind, muttered something in his ear and planted a quick kiss on his cheek before leaving with a promise to come back. She closed the door silently behind her, and the room was left to the two of them.

“Hey,” Harry said, rather weakly. “You look awful.”

Draco glared at him. “It’s easy for you to say, lying there doing nothing. You just _have_ to get yourself injured, don’t you?”

They were both too familiar with this routine, really, it was pathetic; Harry didn’t say anything, knowing Draco’s need to rant out his frustration for the past few days, and he just _looked_ at him the whole time, worse for wear with stubbles and dark circles under his eyes. Then his expression shifted, it wasn’t exactly a smile, but his eyes crinkled at the corners, and Draco stopped mid-tirade, suddenly short of breath, heart gripped by the terrible, terrible relief. He let out a sigh.

“I’m glad you’re fine, you know, you moron,” he said quietly, sitting down on the side of the bed, adrenaline drained, leaving him suddenly very tired. “But you’ve got to stop. You can’t do this to me again and again.”

Harry reached for his hand and gave it a little squeeze. “It’s just work, and they’ve always been able to patch me up, haven’t they? I’ll be careful next time, I promise. Have you been here all this time?”

“Someone’s got to be here to tell you how reckless and foolish you were, don’t they, and who knows when will you wake up?” 

“Thank you,” Harry managed a smile and ignored what he said entirely. “I really am sorry. And I was sorry when I went to work that day. I hate that we left things that way.”

“Do you really, though? I can’t tell.”

And somehow that had led to them fighting again — thanks to the mandatory Muffliato on all active Aurors’ ward, none of the St Mungo’s staff had heard. Else they definitely would’ve been stopped, and everything that happened after… well, wouldn’t have happened. Probably. On one hand, Draco had come to think Harry and him were bound to have that showdown no matter what, and they had always proven to be good at fighting; but he still wondered, in the middle of the night, that if they had been stopped, whether things could’ve turned out differently.

“Being an Auror is who I am, you know this, Draco, you’re just being selfish — ”

“Selfish?” Draco raised his voice. “You’re doing this now? I’ve always been selfish, and you knew that when you got yourself into this mess, didn’t you? It’s not like I’m asking you to resign right this moment, just — ”

“And _I’ve_ always wanted to be an Auror, which I’ve also told you from the beginning, and you were perfectly fine with it back then! This isn’t fair!”

“You know what isn’t fair? Try getting an owl every other month saying you’re in some new life-threatening danger _again_ , and I can’t know any details of your injuries or your missions, because it’s all _confidential_ , apparently, since I even have to wait outside every time for the Aurors to talk to you first when you wake up, don’t I — ”

“That’s the job! It’s the same for all rookie Aurors, we’ve got all the groundwork, but it’ll get better after the first couple of years — ”

“Couple of years? Do you even listen to yourself, Potter? At the rate you’re going, do you actually believe you’ll make it for another couple of _years_? Surely not even you can be that naïve? Have you not learnt anything? Do you know how many times you’ve ended up here? You were injured so badly that they had to put you in a coma!”

“It wasn’t as serious as it looked! Hermione doesn’t have this much problem with Ron being an Auror anyhow — ”

“That’s because Weasley doesn’t get himself _sliced up_ every time he goes on a mission, unlike _you_ — ”

“ — so why do I have to give up my career for you?”

Draco opened his mouth but suddenly found himself not quite sure what to say. He shut his mouth. His heart was pounding and blood was roaring in his ears, but he didn’t look away from Harry’s eyes. Harry had fallen silent.

“You don’t, I suppose.”

He gathered his things with his wand blindly, backing toward the door, fingers numb and cold. Harry was staring at him with an expression somewhere between panicking and raging, still impossibly pale. He uttered at last, “...that’s not what I mean.”

Draco forced himself to breathe out. “Then what did you mean, exactly?”

Harry didn’t seem to have an answer for that. Draco grabbed his coat tightly. “Fine. Don’t bother.”

“Draco,” Harry said, almost pleading. “Draco.”

“Fuck you, Potter. I’m done.”

He had cleared out of the house a day later. Harry hadn’t been released from St Mungo’s yet.

That wasn’t when they’d last crossed paths, but it was their last real interaction.

Their last _ever_ interaction.


	2. Chapter 2

He set out to Gringotts with a slight sense of dread. 

Potter was old news, and an unpleasant one at that, and naming Draco as executor was just pompous, wasn’t it? And why didn’t he change it? Leave it to him to be an arse even after... well. _After._

Deverill talked to someone at the reception, then the two of them were led to a side room. Someone was already at the table, her back to the door, bushy hair a sight he’d once found familiar. 

She turned her head at the sound of the door closing. Draco didn’t think she seemed particularly surprised, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Draco.”

“Granger.”

“It’s been a while.”

It had been a little over ten months, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud.

He sat down.

Seeing Granger here shouldn’t be surprising, and he wouldn’t say he _was_ surprised per se, but it was — a shock, in a form, her physically being here made everything concrete, made it true, made it worse.

The goblin across from the desk gave them a dirty look like their little exchange was in fact wasting much more than three seconds of his time. A memory arose, unbidden: Potter looking sheepish, not really hiding behind him but there really wasn’t another word for what he was doing, when they walked into Gringotts. He had quirked an eyebrow at him, and Potter had muttered, “Well, you know. The dragon.”

“The what?”

“Tell you later. Let’s get it done and get out of here first.”

And he did tell him, later that day, over their takeaway dinner in his messy kitchen. Draco had no memory of the food they had, but he remembered their shoulders bumping and thighs touching, and the stupid holes on that pair of jeans Potter was wearing. 

He shook the moment off, cleared his throat. From the corner of his eye, he saw Granger straightened her spine; he felt a sense of solidarity despite himself, not having to face the surly goblins alone. After all, if there was someone the goblins disdained with as much force as they did Potter, that would undoubtedly be Granger.

And Weasley. Where was him, anyway?

Deverill sat down across from them, next to an overly bright-eyed wizard that introduced himself as Davies from the Auror Office, his hands clasped in front of him, his upper body slightly hunched over the table, the perfect impression of the newly-graduated, eager to impress.

“Mr Malfoy, Ms Granger, I am Nadluk, I will be handling this case together with the Auror Office and the Goblin Liaison from Registry and Custom. As you have been notified, the two of you were appointed as executors of Mr Harry Potter’s estate in the event of his death. As we — ”

“You kept saying that, but _how_? How did he…?”

Draco was amazed at how steady her voice was, even though she didn’t seem able to finish her sentence.

“All we can say for now is that Mr Potter had been involved in an undercover mission,” Davies said, his eyes darting between Draco and Granger as if he couldn’t decide which one was going to be more trouble. “The investigation is still ongoing, we won’t be able to tell you anything until the case is closed. We are very sorry.”

“Investigating what?” Draco said, surprising himself. This entire scene was impossible, really, but logistics, he could handle logistics. “Are you even certain he’s... are you certain it’s him? Do you have a body?”

“What we are doing now is all standard procedure,” said Davies, very quickly. “I trust what is said in this room is going to be in confidence. Auror Potter’s undercover mission was terminated three months ago. Their operation was shut down, most of the criminals were apprehended, but Auror Potter hasn’t been found. I’m afraid the scene was quite… messy. We were able to find his wand, but other than that… Protocol dictates our course of action from there.”

“Three months ago?” Granger demanded, her eyes large and her face pale. “And we’re only told of this _now_?”

“I’m sorry, Ms Granger. Our hands were tied.”

“What have you been doing for the last three months, then?” Draco said, unbelieving. “What changed?”

“We did everything, truly. Erm, allow me,” Davies pushed the slim wooden box on the desk towards their direction. “This is Mr Potter’s wand. We’ve ran all the requisite tests. You can have it back.”

Draco reached for the box, his fingers landed lightly on the box, so very lightly. The wood was slightly colder than his fingertips. At this, he found his voice: “Oh, we _can_ have it back? We shall be so grateful. Does this mean you’re — giving up? Is this what it is? You ran out of ideas so you decided it’s time to let us know?”

“Please understand, as I was saying, we’ve run all the tests, questioned all those in custody, but there’s nothing. No magical signature, none of the tracing spells got any result, and we’ve been monitoring the site but there hasn’t been any magical activity… We did all we can, Mr Malfoy. We really did.”

Draco wasn’t quite sure what to say, what to do; suddenly he felt like this wasn’t his place. He sneaked a glance at Granger, but her face betrayed nothing. He put his hand back on the desk, barely within reach of the box.

“Could he have been, I don’t know, kidnapped?” Granger asked. 

“It’s possible, yes, but not probable. Previous cases like this, they were all… all signs point to the inevitable. And if someone really did have Mr Potter, they wouldn’t have stayed silent for this long. Surely they would’ve asked for something, demanded a ransom, or announced his death as a sign of Ministry failure or the Dark Lord avenged. But there’s just nothing.”

“Now, if you allow me to proceed,” Nadluk said into the silence, his posture and voice easily undermining any semblance of authority Davies had tried to project. His long fingers drew a complex pattern on the piece of parchment lying in front of him, and it started to turn a dark shade of green. “Please present your hands and wands.” 

This time, it was Granger who glanced over. Draco looked back, but before he could say anything, she seemed to make up her mind. She presented her wand.

What else could he do? Draco followed.

Identification went fast: both of their wands were registered at Gringotts before, and Deverill’s _Revelio_ on them, per regulation, revealed nothing. Nadluk drew one drop of blood from each of them; the drops of blood floated in the air, landed on the magical seal on the will, and it fluttered open.

“What would happen if I were dead?” Granger asked. 

Davies looked startled; Deverill looked amused. Nadluk wrinkled his nose almost imperceptibly: “What do you mean?”

“You need the blood from both of us to open the seal. What happens if one or all of the executors are dead? Abroad? Or in Azkaban?”

Draco almost laughed. Here they were, sitting in front of a goblin about to read Potter’s will; this was the most surreal day of his life, and Granger, as shaken as she looked, was asking reasonable and rational questions about legality. Something never changed.

“If we are certain one or all of the executors can’t be reached, we can open the will by ourselves. It will take some time, and it can only be done by the goblin who signed the validation, but it can be done.” Here, Nadluk’s smile turned ever-so-slightly nasty. “As you know, we can open your vaults for you, too, if the circumstances so require. Now, the matter at hand: we have the list of the beneficiaries here.”

The parchment wasn’t long. Draco hesitated, but Granger took it and slid it across the desk so they could read it together.

Potter left something to almost all of the Weasleys and some of his other friends, small things like his Quidditch kit, his bizarre muggle magazines, and his odd-looking coffee machine; he left most of the money under his name to Teddy Lupin; he left a small amount of money and his cottage in Godric’s Hollow to Granger and Weasley; he left the Black vault and 12 Grimmauld Place to Draco.

“I got his _house_?”

Draco wasn’t sure who he was talking to; it was probably himself. Granger only nodded absently, and kept on looking at the parchment closely. 

“It would appear so.” Nadluk said in a perfectly polite voice, but the underlying message was clear enough: how dare Draco questioned the validity of the will and thereby questioned him?

“Here,” Deverill gave Nadluk a look before she pulled out another parchment: “A list of the things to be taken care of. I believe Mr Potter still did most of his transactions up in Edinburgh?”

Granger nodded. Nadluk didn’t even try to hide his grimace this time. After the war, the three of them had been handling most of their finances with what used to be a Scottish branch of Gringotts that went independent, much to the disdain of the goblins down in London. 

“Right, Registry and Customs will issue a Grant so you can take care of that account. Oh, and the Ministry pension goes to Mr Lupin as well. Cases like this, we usually advise people to set up a trust in the beneficiary’s name. The guardian can make withdrawal on his behalf before he’s of age.” Deverill paused, checking another file in her hands. “As for the houses… since we’re already here, we can take care of the land registry right away, and the magical transfer later. I’m afraid there’s a possibility of estate tax for those. If you would like to help, Mr Nadluk?”

Nadluk motioned for another goblin standing by the door, a hint of a satisfactory gleam in his eyes. “The cottage, you don’t have to worry about that, there will only be a small fee. But the Black house, that _is_ rather valuable.”

It wasn’t an issue. 

Not long after Nadluk’s assistant was approaching him with trepidation, informing him that according to the registry, Draco was already the joint owner of the house. 

“Joint? You are sure, very sure?”

Draco exchanged a look with Granger, both of them not entirely certain what that meant.

Their exchange must have been caught by Deverill: “That means there’s no tax, as you already own the house with Mr Potter together in its entirety.”

“That’s… good, I suppose?” Draco stared, uncomprehending, and then stared a bit more at Granger, who shrugged at him in response. She still didn’t seem surprised.

The same couldn’t be said about Nadluk, who looked positively murderous at this moment. This was neither the time nor the place, but Draco had to hide a smile — it had been a long time since he allowed himself thoughts of Potter, but he could almost see that face of his if he were here, pissing off Gringotts one last time.

He caught himself in time before he got further down that path.

Deverill took over the records brought over by the assistant, her eyes skimming through the parchments in quick successions. “Well, Mr Malfoy, as you are yourself a member of the Black family, this will not be too difficult. You are on the family tree; the House should recognise your blood and your status. I trust you have the knowledge of what security measure Mr Potter had taken. The contents of the vault will be yours, if not otherwise named in the will. Mr Nadluk here will arrange for the transfer and move your vault deeper down.”

“What about Andromeda?” Granger asked. “She’s Andromeda Tonks now, but she was a Black. And Teddy?”

“Mrs Tonks was removed from the family tree and thus the line of succession many years ago. Of course, the decision can be put off after you discuss the matter with your mother and your aunt, Mr Malfoy, if you so wish. But the will has your name on it. At the end of the day, it’ll be your decision.” Deverill looked between them, at Granger who seemed like she had something to say and at Draco — he had no idea what he looked like at the moment. “Or the two of you can discuss and come up with a course of action, as executors. As for the funeral arrangements, I’m certain many people will want to pay their respects… What do you have in mind?”

* * *

Draco was still debating if he should just, go or something, when Granger finished gathering up all the documents on the desk, putting them into her purse, and bit her lips. “Maybe we should find a place to talk.” 

“Right, that’s… right.” He said stupidly, following her for want of an alternative option, shocked at his own ineloquence. He really wasn’t at his best today.

They stepped out from the Gringotts gates together, and Draco only realised it when it was too late and he was blinded by a flash of white, bright and harsh and _painful_ and right in his face, and he thought, _well, fuck_.

The two of them were overrun by reporters the instant they were out of the doors. Granger cursed under her breath, and two seconds later she was grabbing onto his right arm lest they were separated by the mob, their collective forces pushing and pulling them virtually from every angle possible. Drowned in the flashes of the cameras, her face was strangely devoid of any colour and emotion, bleached and bland and pale as hell.

“Side-Along?” she breathed.

“What are you waiting for,” he snapped.

It was as if thousands of eyes were drilling into them, the last thing he remembered before being swept away by the familiar sensation, all of them asking the same question: _How could you lose Harry Potter?_

_However did the wizarding world manage to lose its saviour?_

Hell if he knew. 

They stumbled into what appeared to be Granger’s living room, the interior unfamiliar but it was rather evident from the moving photos on the fireplace. 

She made a vague gesture toward the sofa, seemingly as at sea as he was feeling. “Have a seat, I’ll just… go make some tea, if you like?”

She didn’t wait for his response before going to the kitchen.

“Where’s Weasley? Shouldn’t he be at Gringotts, too?” He said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

“Ron’s on an assignment,” Granger said, her voice slightly tinted with disapproval, “it’s bound to go on for another two weeks, I think. We’ll be on our own for this.”

“On our own? I imagine we’d be swamped by all the other Weasleys tomorrow. And every Gryffindor of our year, for that matter. As soon as the picture of us leaving Gringotts got out we’ll be bombarded.”

“Well,” Granger said, coming back to the living room. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that, but I suppose you have a point.”


End file.
